Erin Hart - The Book of Killowen

“Well, wasn’t that his specialty, early medieval philosophy?”

“What difference does that make?”

“I just find it odd that he should be buried here with someone who’s probably from the very same era that he studied. A rather amazing coincidence, don’t you think?”

On the way to Killowen, Stella checked her messages. Nothing from Lia since yesterday morning. Second-guessing was the worst sort of disease, an incurable affliction. Perhaps if she’d been stricter? Or more permissive? Which was it, and where was the magic balance point? Lia’s schoolwork was gone to hell last spring, lost in a different, brand-new immediacy—the scent of a boy’s neck, the electric torch of a warm hand inside a blouse. What dusty old book could compete with that biological imperative? She felt herself carried back on a memory, locked arm in arm with her classmates, all half pissed on stolen altar wine and possibility as they made their way home on a warm May evening after a snogging session in a nearby orchard with the lads from Saint Anselm’s, the boys’ college down the road. They’d been falling all over one another, laughing and singing at the top of their lungs:

She remembered what came after as well—being called on the rug before Sister Geraldine, the mother superior. Breaking the rules didn’t bring chastisement from Sister Geraldine but something even worse—a feeling that one had disappointed her. In some ways, that was punishment enough. Stella had often wondered about Sister Geraldine’s background, about what had made her choose the veil. What had drawn any of the nuns to that life, away from society, from the world of men? It wasn’t as if the choice had lifted them to a higher plane of existence, above the worldly fray; there were obvious frictions among the sisters at the convent—you could see it in the pursed lips, the clipped way they spoke to one another at times. But she had since come to realize that these were intelligent, educated women, scholars who were often deeply immersed in their own subjects—biology, mathematics, literature—and curious about the world. Stella found she had a much greater appreciation for them now that she was trying to raise a daughter with even a fraction of the nuns’ self-respect and self-possession. She’d not appreciated them at the time, just as Lia was having a difficult time understanding or appreciating her—that circular curse of youth and age.

Stella pulled into the yard at Killowen and parked opposite the farmhouse, beside Mairéad Broome’s black BMW. A few ducks and a gaggle of geese roamed around the driveway. The slate roof on the main building looked new. This was definitely a working farm, and yet there was simplicity and order, as well as a certain creative vibe to the place. As Stella climbed out of the car, the geese began to waddle in her direction. The gander darted forward, hissing a warning, and a voice came from the doorway: “Mind that fella, he’s the next thing to a guard dog.”

Stella turned to find Claire Finnerty standing in the entry. “I expect you’re here about the bog men,” Claire said. “Hard to keep a thing like that under wraps. Boot of a car, we heard.” Claire herself was dressed for work, in cargo pants, striped jumper, and fleece vest. Her thick dark hair was tied back in a no-nonsense plait, her feet firmly planted in a beat-up pair of wellingtons. “I’m the only one here at the minute, apart from a couple of guests.”

“I’m happy to begin with you,” Stella said.

“Come in, then.” Claire Finnerty led her into the house, through the large open sitting room and kitchen that formed the main portion of the ground floor. Thick oak beams spanned the width of the building, and the far wall was almost all glass—three sets of French doors that looked out over an herb garden in the back courtyard. The table was covered at the moment with small heaps of fresh-cut oregano, thyme, and rosemary that gave the kitchen a pungent aroma. Claire Finnerty returned to her task, bundling the herbs with elastic bands. “Have to keep at this,” she said. “We’ve a market in Banagher first thing tomorrow.”

“Her car’s outside, so no doubt you already know what I’m going to ask: How long have you known Mairéad Broome?” Stella asked.

“She’s been coming here about six or seven years. We offer a place to work with a minimum of interruption. That’s why we’re here.”

“How often does she come?”

“I’d say about twice a year, on average.”

“Regularly?”

“Not really; it depends on her exhibition schedule.”

“What about last spring?”

“I don’t remember the dates on every booking. I’d have to check—”

“Please do.”

Claire Finnerty rose deliberately and led Stella to a small cluttered office adjacent to the kitchen. It was a cozy and gloriously eccentric space, walls the color of cinnamon and carved wooden and woven grass masks hanging on nearly every inch of space that wasn’t occupied by bookcases. The shelves were packed with books this way and that, not in disorderly fashion but so that every possible inch was filled, no wasted space. Horticulture, spirituality, Irish history, art, architecture, teach-yourself titles on every conceivable topic, including worm propagation, organic farming, How to Grow Your Own Hemp . At the center of the desk, a small laptop gave off a cool blue light. “When were you looking for?” Claire Finnerty asked.

“The last two weeks of April, this year.”

Finnerty tapped on a few keys to bring up the booking calendar. “Oh, no, I thought we’d taken care of that.” She turned to Stella, all concern. “We had a computer virus that wiped out our scheduling program for the first five months of the year. I know that Mairéad was with us sometime in the spring, but I can’t remember whether it was February or March—but definitely not April.”

“How do you know?”

“We were getting in a new geothermal system, and with all the upheaval of construction, we decided it would be better not to have resident artists during that time.”

“Since you’re a friend of Mairéad Broome’s, you must also know that one of the dead men found in the bog yesterday was her husband.” Stella held up the photo on her mobile and watched Claire Finnerty’s eyes narrow. “Benedict Kavanagh. The car belonged to him.”

“Yes, Mairéad told me about Benedict when she arrived just now.”

“Did you ever meet Mr. Kavanagh?”

“No.” Stella wasn’t sure if she was taken aback more by the lack of apology or by the tiny note of challenge in Claire Finnerty’s voice.

“But you didn’t like him.”

“I really couldn’t offer an opinion. As I said, I never met the man.”

“And Ms. Broome never spoke about him?”

“Not really.”

“A man goes missing and ends up dead less than a quarter of a mile from here, the place where his wife came to work twice a year for the past six or seven years. You don’t find that rather odd?”

“It is strange. But I don’t have any idea what Benedict Kavanagh was doing here. If you don’t mind, I need to get on with my herbs.” Claire gestured toward the kitchen, and Stella followed her back to the table.

“What else can you tell me about last April?”

“You mean, can I remember anything incriminating about anyone here?”

Stella found herself rankling at the antagonistic edge in Claire Finnerty’s voice. “I just need to know what you recall,” she said. “Anything unusual. We’re trying to figure out, for instance, how Mr. Kavanagh’s car came to be buried in the bog, whether anyone would have had access to a mechanical digger during the last two weeks of April.”